


Consolation

by HopeCoppice



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Gen, Heavy Angst, Low Self-Esteem, M/M, Negative Self Talk, POV Crowley (Good Omens), Self Confidence Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:14:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24650641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HopeCoppice/pseuds/HopeCoppice
Summary: Aziraphale is pushing Crowley away, and Crowley doesn't understand.Inspired by warcatscats' 'Desperation'
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 93





	Consolation

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Desperation](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20700032) by [warcatscat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/warcatscat/pseuds/warcatscat). 



> This is a bit different to my usual, warcatscats messaged Aziraphale's Library on Tumblr to see if anyone wanted to write a response or follow-up to Desperation (do go and read that first, it's brilliant, although it does contain a lot of self-loathing on Aziraphale's part so be aware if that's a trigger - so does this one, actually, on Crowley's part). I read it and got all inspired and, well, this happened.
> 
> @ Warcatscats: Thank you for writing the original fic and for giving me your blessing to post this, I hope you like it (or at least don't hate it)!

Crowley never knew what to say, that was the problem.

Aziraphale had clearly heard nothing good about himself from Heaven in all the time he'd been reporting to them, and now all he had left was Crowley. Crowley, a demon, whose every attempt to comfort, to console, to flatter… well, Aziraphale had dismissed it all as some sort of wile. Demons couldn't be trusted, after all, and meeting one's approval, however enthusiastic, only seemed to remind Aziraphale that he wasn't good enough for angels. Crowley understood that; demons were evil, after all. A truly good angel, in Aziraphale's opinion, would be repulsive to the denizens of Hell, and the fact that he wasn't - that Crowley cared for him - only seemed to prove that he was a bad angel.

Crowley didn't care for angels, in general, but he certainly didn't want  _ his _ angel thinking he was a bad one.

And then Aziraphale had lashed out, fresh from an unpleasant encounter with Gabriel - there were no other kinds of encounter with Gabriel - and Crowley's heart had broken for him. Had broken for them both, actually, because he didn't know how to make things better, how to make right a world where Aziraphale truly believed that Crowley could leave him. Crowley could no more leave Aziraphale than a star could leave its system; he would always pull the angel back towards him in the end.

To prove his point, he left.

He left, and he stewed for a week in his own feelings of unworthiness. What could an angel ever see in him, after all, what could  _ Aziraphale  _ possibly find to cherish in such a spiky, unlovable being as Crowley? How could he ever think that Crowley would abandon him, when Crowley had risked his existence for six thousand years just to bask in his light every so often?

He returned, of course, as he always did. Aziraphale might hurt him, on occasion, but it was never out of malice. Crowley was no stranger to saying the wrong thing in the heat of a moment, after all, nor to self-sabotage. Even now, he couldn't tell Aziraphale that what he'd said didn't hurt - he didn't lie to Aziraphale - and he didn't dare tell the angel he'd been wrong in case that mild criticism sent him spiralling further into self-loathing. All he could do was be present, and let Aziraphale lead. When the angel was ready, he would tell Crowley what he needed. When he told Crowley what he needed, Crowley would give it to him. He always did; he always would.

Aziraphale had apologised, when Crowley returned, and Crowley had told him he understood. He didn't need to apologise, not to Crowley, never to Crowley; Crowley would always come back. But then Aziraphale had made a few token attempts at conversation, the sort of stilted sentences one might exchange with a stranger, and Crowley was so alarmed by the distance at which Aziraphale was suddenly holding him that he didn't know how to respond. Suddenly, he felt as though being overfamiliar might just make things worse. So he choked out a bland reply and fell silent, uncertain of his place now that their relationship seemed to have reset somehow.

_ Well, that went down like a lead balloon. _

And Aziraphale turned his attention to his books, and no matter how Crowley tried to catch his eye - if he could just get Aziraphale to look at him, perhaps the angel would remember who he was talking to - he never seemed to look up.

Crowley huffed, hoping to catch his attention that way, and went for a walk around the block. It was sunny outside, warmth suffusing the serpent's human corporation and giving him the clarity he'd been lacking. Aziraphale was probably just as lost as Crowley was - more so, perhaps, having openly defied orders for the first time so recently. Crowley could be the bigger man-shaped being. Crowley could ask Aziraphale for the closeness he craved. Crowley would beg if he had to.

He was on his way back to the shop when he felt a note drop into his jacket pocket and pulled it out to find his name written in Aziraphale's inimitable hand. For a moment, he was afraid; had Aziraphale left him forever, gone up to Heaven, where Crowley couldn't follow? He would try, if it came to it; if that was what the note said, he would fly up to Heaven on burning wings and bang on the blessed gates until he had no more hands to beat them with. But the note didn't say that.

He read it twice, absorbing every scrap of angelic self-loathing that had leaked onto the page along with the ink, and then snapped his fingers at the shop door. There was no sign of Aziraphale in the shop, so he strode on into the back room, into the cramped hallway beyond, up the stairs.

He found Aziraphale lying on his dusty bed, staring up at the ceiling with an expression of abject misery.

"It doesn't suit you," Crowley told him firmly, and Aziraphale turned his head to frown at him.

"What doesn't?"

"Being so still," Crowley admitted, because that was the first thing that had struck him. "Being so sad." He moved closer, so that he could have reached out and touched Aziraphale if he chose. He wanted to. He refrained. "Being alone." That wasn't what he meant. "Being without me."

Aziraphale stared blankly at him for a moment, then sat up.

"No." His fingers twitched, as if he, too, was barely keeping himself from reaching out for what he wanted. "It doesn't feel good, either."

Crowley couldn't always say the right thing; he couldn't keep Aziraphale from hating himself, or make the angel understand that he was the very best of Heaven, the very best of  _ everything. _ He couldn't fix what had been broken in his angel over millennia of harsh treatment. But he could fix this; he could keep them both from being miserable and alone when they so desperately wanted to be together. So he stopped fighting himself; he reached out and took Aziraphale's hand in his own.

"I love you enough for both of us," he told him, voice as soft as the pillows Aziraphale pulled him down onto.

And together, they began to heal.


End file.
